“I shan’t marry her just yet,” whispered Paul, seeing his plans for the time frustrated.  Gazing in audacious tranquillity upon the decks of the enemy, and amicably answering her hail, with complete self-possession, he commanded the cable to be slipped, and then, as if he had accidentally parted his anchor, turned his prow on the seaward tack, meaning to return again immediately with the same prospect of advantage possessed at first—­his plan being to crash suddenly athwart the Drake’s bow, so as to have all her decks exposed point-blank to his musketry.  But once more the winds interposed.  It came on with a storm of snow; he was obliged to give up his project.

Thus, without any warlike appearance, and giving no alarm, Paul, like an invisible ghost, glided by night close to land, actually came to anchor, for an instant, within speaking-distance of an English ship-of-war; and yet came, anchored, answered hail, reconnoitered, debated, decided, and retired, without exciting the least suspicion.  His purpose was chain-shot destruction.  So easily may the deadliest foe—­so he be but dexterous—­slide, undreamed of, into human harbors or hearts.  And not awakened conscience, but mere prudence, restrain such, if they vanish again without doing harm.  At daybreak no soul in Carrickfergus knew that the devil, in a Scotch bonnet, had passed close that way over night.

Seldom has regicidal daring been more strangely coupled with octogenarian prudence, than in many of the predatory enterprises of Paul.  It is this combination of apparent incompatibilities which ranks him among extraordinary warriors.

Ere daylight, the storm of the night blew over.  The sun saw the Ranger lying midway over channel at the head of the Irish Sea; England, Scotland, and Ireland, with all their lofty cliffs, being as simultaneously as plainly in sight beyond the grass-green waters, as the City Hall, St. Paul’s, and the Astor House, from the triangular Park in New York.  The three kingdoms lay covered with snow, far as the eye could reach.

“Ah, Yellow-hair,” said Paul, with a smile, “they show the white flag, the cravens.  And, while the white flag stays blanketing yonder heights, we’ll make for Whitehaven, my boy.  I promised to drop in there a moment ere quitting the country for good.  Israel, lad, I mean to step ashore in person, and have a personal hand in the thing.  Did you ever drive spikes?”

“I’ve driven the spike-teeth into harrows before now,” replied Israel; “but that was before I was a sailor.”

“Well, then, driving spikes into harrows is a good introduction to driving spikes into cannon.  You are just the man.  Put down your glass; go to the carpenter, get a hundred spikes, put them in a bucket with a hammer, and bring all to me.”

As evening fell, the great promontory of St. Bee’s Head, with its lighthouse, not far from Whitehaven, was in distant sight.  But the wind became so light that Paul could not work his ship in close enough at an hour as early as intended.  His purpose had been to make the descent and retire ere break of day.  But though this intention was frustrated, he did not renounce his plan, for the present would be his last opportunity.